Progress

 For those of you who are interested chapter 2....
 
              Part 1:http://theporphyriacnovel.blogspot.co.uk/2012/12/chapter-2.html?zx=96bdb947c64fb434 

             Part 2: http://theporphyriacnovel.blogspot.co.uk/2012/12/chapter-2-part-2.html

            Part 3: http://theporphyriacnovel.blogspot.co.uk/2012/12/chapter-2-part-3.html

New blog

 Season's greetings fellow voyagers, I thought you may like to know about my new blog for
a novel I'm writing called The Porphyriac. So far it's just the first chapter which is written in three parts. Follow the links for the story so far.... chapter two is on its way!
  
     Link 1: http://theporphyriacnovel.blogspot.co.uk/2012/12/chapter-1-opening.html
     Link 2: http://theporphyriacnovel.blogspot.co.uk/2012/12/chapter-1.html
     Link 3:http://theporphyriacnovel.blogspot.co.uk/2012/12/chapter-1_14.html

      

The Serpent And The Lotus

                

                            A Gnostic Fable

I awoke in a stark, white, room. With a bright, surgical light burning directly into my retinas.
Pain stabbed through my brain like a blunt knife. I sat up, in order to evade it, and in doing so registered three things: My bare feet, white hospital issue pyjamas and an even more intolerable pain in the left side of my chest. I looked down beneath my top and beheld a long wound sutured with black wire. The wound itself was a crusty, black scab, with the odd bit of crimson juice oozing here and there, while the surrounding contusions were of a livid purple hue.
  I alighted off the surgical table and shod my feet in the plain, white slippers provided and caught sight of my death's-head reflection in what I took to be a huge blacked out window. Not a pretty sight. Oyster eyes, blue lips, anaemic pallor. When I inadvertently touched the window while contemplating the wraith before me, something most peculiar happened. The window was illuminated and revealed its true purpose. This was no window but a two way mirror. Through which I recognised, to my ultimate horror all of my social acquaintances. They were rather well oiled and enjoying an obviously swinging party. This was, by no means the best any of them had ever looked, but they were at least well attired and moreover, looked happy. I shouted to attract their attention, then screamed and finally beat feebly with my blue-nailed hands against the glass. To no avail. I noticed a free-standing steel lamp with a solid base. Summoning all my strength I picked it up and swung it, straight through the pane, instantly shattering all their illusions.
 They were at first astounded, which quickly gave way to amusement as I began to denounce my anonymous captors. "look what they did to me!" I cried plaintively, as I rent my garment to expose my scar. "It's alright love" said Jemima, kindly. Jemima was more of an acquaintance than a friend, which in truth they all were. She then unbuttoned a 60's style paisley shirt, to reveal an old grey scar. It was in exactly the same location on her body as mine. Everyone in the room quickly followed suit. "see we've all had it done, the doctors have found you can live without it, it causes you so much grief, you'll soon find you don't miss it" Beamed Jemima maniacally, as if she just been trepanned by an enthusiastic friend wielding a Black and Decker drill.
  I looked down once more, as I did so a wave of ultimate dread came over me. A faint old scar was visible beneath my new one, slightly larger that my most recent mutilation. "Oh my God, no! No! I screamed as the room full of erstwhile lovers, teachers, classmates, colleagues et al erupted into laughter. "They've put it back, they've cleaned it up and put it back...! I jumped through the cavity which from their side looked like a huge regency style mirror, bolted across the ornately decorated room and seized the door handle.
  I found myself in a long narrow corridor, lined with dark stained oak and hung with generic landscapes. I ran the length of the corridor, curiously, no one gave chase. I continued across the black and white marble tiled floor of the hall and out through the heavy, oak front door.  All the while fighting for breath. my adrenaline carried me forward, as I ran past a small fountain in the grounds to a small wooded area. I looked up, the moon was full like a great, hammered silver dish. I was cold and numb, I collapsed.
 When I awoke the sun was on my face. Although I no longer had a face. when I came to awareness I realised that I was in fact a large, black lotus flower with a crimson stamen. On top of which was a small, round fruit. My immediate neighbours were to my right, a splendid pomegranate tree dripping with scarlet fruit and to my left an apple tree, groaning beneath the weight of its golden adornments.
    I could on occasion hear them converse as I could all the things in the vast garden. The lichens, flowers, toadstools, trees, birds, animals and of course the Man and Woman.
 I however, was unique and had on this account been assigned a guardian by the powers that be. He was a great long black snake, with a green hood and stripe down his back. his eyes were like two Burmese rubies and his name was Lucifer. The Man and Woman were not particularly bright and had developed an unhealthy curiosity about me. Particularly regarding the juicy crimson fruit growing from my stamen. Whenever they ventured too near and looked as if they were going to touch me, all I could do to defend myself was snap shut my petals. Lucifer, being both a snake and a preternatural being always sensed this and with lightening speed wrapped his coils around me rearing up and fanning out his hood. "Get back, get back! The Holy One Blessed Be He has forbidden it!" The Man and Woman merely grunted, as they were rather unevolved, their communication skills still markedly inferior compared with the gardens' other residents. The lichens were very musical and composed rudimentary trance music by means of sub-sonic sound pulses. The lone Porpoise who dwelt in the lake had invented his own private language, much to the consternation of the fish. I you must understand was omniscient, therefore I understood all. Lucifer was the wisest animal in the garden and it was his unenviable task to keep in check the moronic humans. One day Lucifer was coiled at the edge of the lake, on the cusp of a breakthrough with the Porpoise {I, though omniscient was sadly mute} when the humans seized their opportunity. The fruit on my stamen was ripe, so ripe, sometimes when the wind blew, I could look up through it at the sky. It was like observing the world through a candy wrapper.
  The Woman had tied a broken vine to a branch of the apple tree and swung down snatching the fruit from my stamen. The only distinctive thing about it was the line, dividing the two hemispheres of my fruit. She ingested it, but swallowed only one half, retaining the other in her mouth. She then kissed The Man and in doing so he assimilated my juicy pulp. What followed was most peculiar. I was now the Man and the Woman. I looked upon her with desire and got an erection. I looked at him with insatiable hunger and all the time it was like looking in the mirror. It was the strangest, most Onanistic feeling I had ever experienced. The phrase 'go fuck yourself' leapt into mind. Yet it was also wonderful and I copulated and ejaculated and fertilised myself. At which point we fused and I was Man and Woman no longer but a singularity, namely a zygote, developing in the Woman's womb.
  Upon his return Lucifer, seeing my erstwhile abode realised what had occurred. His suspicions were confirmed when the formerly dull-witted Woman {now wearing a coconut shell bra and banana leaf knickers} engaged him in conversation. " we now know why you guarded your charge so jealously, it contained the source of all knowledge and pleasure." When Lucifer gathered my withered remains in his coils they crumbled to dust and blew away with the breeze. Sapphire tears flowed from his ruby eyes and his heart sank in his scaly breast. "You were to be fed the berry at the appointed time on the day of your investiture. you were to be led before the stone altar and I was to intone hymns and every animal in the garden was to sing in reply. Various flowers and fruits were to be brought as offerings to the Lord, and upon his instruction you were to be fed the berry by the Holy Dove. As it is you have defied the Holy One and prematurely brought about your awakening. While you have sinned in ignorance he shall be more wrath with me, for I have failed in the discharge of my duties."
 "When" laughed the Woman scornfully, "were we to have been fed the berry in this fanciful ceremony?"
 "No one knows the hour but The Holy One, not even I. I was trying to see if the Porpoise would sing when the time came. He has, unsurprisingly, despite his many difficulties, no trouble comprehending the universal music of the sacred".
"We have only your word for this snake! Shouted the previously silent Man, {now wearing a banana leaf loin cloth} how do we know you weren't just keeping the berry for yourself?"
"Because I could already speak and even yet enjoy a superior level of awareness to you!"
With this the Man lunged at Lucifer, he reared and fanned out his hood, about to strike, when a gentle breeze blew and all things became still. The Holy Dove descended and spake thus:
"Lucifer, do not strike this man, hold your forked tongue while I pronounce judgement.
The snake bowed before the Holy Dove, who was now perched in the bower of the pomegranate tree.
   "You Lucifer were remiss in the discharge of your duties, owing to excessive pride in your gifts. You so adore hearing yourself sing, more so in front of an audience, that you neglected your primary duty. That of guarding the Sacred Lotus. As a consequence, the unripe creatures have come too early to fruition. Being a seasoned experimenter, I always make provision for such a possibility. However, I will now, in my capacity as Paraclete have to legislate for the consequences".
 "You Man and Woman, will have to vacate the garden and inhabit a place more conducive to your development".
    "But, contested the Man, we sinned in ignorance. Surely a sin in ignorance is no sin at all?"
 "Please, understand, continued The Holy Dove. This is not a punishment, you have dictated the course of your own development. From my point of view this is rather exciting, as when I dictate the run of play, things tend to be rather predictable. You have given me cause to marvel, your species is one in need of a challenge, I therefore propose the following: Relocation: All your fundamental needs have been met here in the garden, even in your primitive state you were growing weary of interminable perfection. Immortality, feeling wonderful forever, was obviously the cause of the deranging ennui, which lead to the premature consumption of the aforementioned Lotus Fruit.
 That coupled with an almost exclusively fruitarian diet, both fresh and fermented, has obviously played havoc with your rudimentary circuits. They need oiling. To solve this problem I propose a detachment from nature, you will begin to compete with and as a consequence predate other creatures. Loss of empathy is therefore essential.
  "Forgive the interruption, interjected Lucifer now animated, but what is to become of me?"
"Ah, you are to be put to work". Smiled the Dove.
 "To work?" Replied the bemused snake.
 " Yes, I have no desire to destroy the harmony I have established here in the garden, what I have decided to do is give you an outlet for you creativity, a captive audience to inhabit a world dressed according to your design".
  "You mean?" said Lucifer breathlessly
 "I mean you too will leave the garden, though you may return periodically to make the odd progress report and for the occasional sabbatical.
 You will be put into an identical copy of the garden. You, Lucifer will rule it as a principality, sow discord and act as the agent of diffusion. Playing the bass notes, if you will. You will cast confusing shadows and disrupt communication between the newborn race of Men and the rest of nature.
 "They chose to pit themselves against you in the first place, I will therefore, provide you with an arena, a theatre worthy of your genius, what say you Lucifer?
  "What of the gateway between my territory and yours?"
" Why you will guard it of course. At the time of physical death the worthy descendants of Mankind will come to the interstice in order to re-enter the original garden. Before they can pass through the narrow gate they must wrestle you. Only those who have strengthened their resolve through meditation, purified their minds and mortified their flesh stand a chance of overcoming you.
Hence there will be many incarnations".
  " I see, so some will get past me?" Said Lucifer, almost disappointed.
 " All will eventually, when they are sufficiently evolved." Replied the Dove with a knowing smile on her beak.
  Lucifer Knew better than to ask when that would be.
 The woman was now indignant and railed at the Dove. " What of the seed which grows in my belly?"
 " Your seed will know nothing but the new world and you will quickly forget when you have been there long enough. All that shall remain is a vestigial memory".
  Before any more protestations could be made, The Man, The Woman and Lucifer were all escorted from the garden by The Holy Dove, who flapped her wings and duplicated the universe.
  The Serpent was now alone with The Man and Woman. He was also in charge.
 "My first act will be to remind you of my mandate, before you forget. I, Lucifer, The Rainbow Serpent, Guardian Of The Dreamtime, Midwife Of Chaos....Chaos hmmm would be an apposite name for the child you carry, alas The Holy One has forbidden it. Apparently the child will have enough to contend with. As I was saying, I imagine your numerous primitive creation myths will traduce and slander at first, then libel, when you start writing things down about me. As your half-remembered version of events is muddled to infinity with every re-telling.
  "Know then this of me: I am your adversary, not your enemy, your chief enemy will not be me, nor the elements, nor the ferocious beasts which lie in wait to devour you. You have no enemy but your own will, which if channelled correctly is marvellous asset, remember my little wards, you came here as a consequence of choice."
  The Woman was now experiencing labour pangs and shouted to the Snake for mercy, to appeal to the Dove for mercy or to defy her altogether. He looked at her with his ruby coloured eyes and made his sad reply: I failed in my duty once before and came to grief, I will not squander my redemption. I must heed her voice not yours, henceforth you will come to regard all snakes as deaf, as I am now forced to be deaf to your pleas.
  "Will we still hear you?" asked the Man desperately.
"Not I, nor any other creature in the garden, the only thing you may occasionally hear is the whispering of The Holy Dove. Though in time you will come to doubt that".
 I heard and curiously, saw all this from my front row seat, inside the woman. I was now engaged, ready to be born.
  " What of my child?" shouted the Woman, now terrified.
 " Accustom her to the sting of the cold, insects, nettles, a flagellant's whip and above all disappointment, only the stings of the aforementioned will afford you any immunity, at the appointed hour to my sting. the worst thing you will have to endure is the aftertaste of the berry. It will linger in the mouths of your descendants as long as they inhabit the earth. They'll have no idea how it got there and will encounter more pain trying to eliminate this taste than by any other means".
  With this he grew a pair of enormous, gorgeous wings, alive with every hue and flew away, out of sight. The Woman began to curse the snake, as she did so her waters broke.
   I awoke myself, 27 years old, lying on a hammock slung between two large trees in my back garden. One a willow the other an oak. I was wet. I had evidently spilled apple and pomegranate juice over myself some time ago which had attracted a wasp. The wasp was now dead, crushed against the throbbing left side of my chest. I glanced momentarily to my right, and espied an adder basking in the sun. The serpent, perceiving my slight movement turned, looking me straight in the eye, before dragging his languid length off between two fence posts, into the undergrowth. As far as I could discern it had no preternatural abilities, then again, how would I know?

 



 

Books and Dead Men

My two loves are books and dead men
Especially when they bite.
Incisive, they feed off me
And I them
An orgy of ghosts who visit by night.

Friendly faces long since reduced to dust
live once more in me while I breathe,
A rotten bunch in whom I trust
For none of them give me cause to grieve.

Though energetic exchanges occur just the same
In the nether worlds of my fevered brain
And just for a moment I manage a kiss
With a congenial spectre across the abyss

Rarer still a switch flicks in my head
And my bedroom filled with the long since dead.
When this happens I invite the shade I like best
To be a good incubus and sit on my chest

But displease me and I'm afraid it's goodbye
Before I'm sucked dry, by psychic succubi.
Though summoning the dead is a perilous feat
I prefer it to reading the modern elite.

This is the result of self-reflection
Occurring at once in all directions.
With them looking forward and I looking back
Stabbed through my Omega point
By a spiritual tack,
Remember, remember the wise Rebbe said.
Just not too hard lest you wake the dead!

The Tits Of Death

I saw Death in Tesco and Death had a fantastic rack. Let me explain. There was a Halloween display and the people charged with making store displays/window dressing had probably run out of male mannequins

 and used a female. Don't get me wrong I quite liked it, it had a Jake and Dinos Chapman quality. It just got me wondering who did it? Was it simply a matter of necessity? Could it have been a fashion obsessed gay man? Or a woman with an eating disorder? Either could have been depicting their idealised female body. Or else someone wishing to strike a blow for equality, why should it always be Gentleman Death who comes to call? I give you The Tits Of Death! Sounds like a low-rent Michael Reeves homage from the early 1970's. I did try to get a picture of myself actually groping the tits of death wearing a suitably leery expression, alas I just couldn't get all four of us in shot!

Cave Paintings

The cave of my heart is cold, hard and black,
The being inside just rattles around.
How vast the cave is essentially unknowable,
Though amplified screams echo around.
 They bounce off the walls of the hollow chamber,
A demented wraith of harrowing sound.

The being inside has no lights but one,
A tiny gold flame dances over her head.
By it she sees nothing but shapes and shadows,
All she hears are fragments of what is said.
From the glimpses she catches she paints the walls,
Of the cave with portraits of the shades of her mind.
She knows only iridescent black granite,
The shades only know though they see-
They are blind.
"How cruel an irony" as Socrates said,
When he smashed through the wall of Plato's cave.

"That those who enjoy the gift of vision are fettered,
while the purblind are free to govern the world".

A Monograph: The Strength And Character Of Bodily Functions As Indicators Of General Well Being.

The above title refers to a recently acquired antique medical document by a nineteenth century physician called Dr. Clovis Stanton-Marwood.  He was a pioneer in the field of holistic medicine, advocating stool analysis as a method of assessing the overall health of an organism. This particular publication dates from 1880, while I do not intend to publish the whole thing verbatim I have decided to print the first chapter for the education and amusement of the reader:

 Chapter 1: The Composition Of Excrement
" A sound stool is the outcome of  an agreeable diet. Light, nourishing and well balanced. Too many times have I seen patients writhing in agony, sore afflicted with excessive bowel gas, owing to the costive effects of rich, stodgy foods. Suet pudding is the enemy of a healthy bowel! One patient in particular, a wealthy industrialist from the north, called Mr.H- consumed such an excess of bowel clogging foods, he required surgical intervention.  Mr.H- aged 54, plump leonine countenance, Sanguine-Choleric temperament. Height: 5 feet 7 inches, Weight: 16 stones. Apart from carrying excess weight the patient enjoyed better health than one with such a dysfunctional bowel could reasonably expect.

  He came to visit me at my rooms in Harley Street complaining of a terrible "gripping" sensation, as if  "a red-hot hand had caught hold of my innards and twisted them about". He was taken ill at his club and had to be brought in as an emergency. After conducting a very brief, preliminary assessment of his general condition, I asked him a series of questions about his diet. Beginning with what he had consumed at his club that day. There followed a litany of sins against the bowel. Scrambled eggs topped with cheese, followed by a steak and kidney pudding and quantity of fried potatoes. He concluded his ghastly repast with jam roly-poly and custard. When I asked him how many fresh vegetables he consumed in a week, he told me never, insisting that he was loath to "feast upon the devil's t----s".  As I was about to admonish Mr.H- for despising the humility and medicinal efficacy of plants, he brought forth a great roar and fell to the ground. He was in the grip of a full paroxysm of the bowel. Time, was now of the essence. I called for assistance from his friends who had brought him in. They burst through the door of my consulting rooms and took hold of him, all the while he struggled, as we lifted him onto the bed in my adjoining surgery. Mr.H- screamed as he was straightened out and had to be secured, to the bed on all fours, by wrist and ankle straps. I then cut off his breeches with a pair of scissors. He begged for chloroform, but I refused, assuring him that the inherent risks did not justify its employment. Besides which, I was experienced in these matters and the situation would very quickly be resolved. This inspired confidence in the patient and he relaxed sufficiently for me to examine the area. There was no need to utilise a speculum as the matter had already begun to present itself. A hard impacted mass of faecal matter known medically as a 'spigot'.The etymology of the word is rather interesting, it derives from the Latin Spica meaning ear of grain. Its spiral shape comes from faeces having to slowly tunnel through a tight intestine creating a 'corkscrew' effect. Also from the magma spigot of a volcano, as extraction often precipitates the expulsion of a stream of burning, liquid excrement. There are two types. Firstly the simple or 'crowning' variety where the end protrudes from the anus. The second complex or 'occult' variety is situated further up the large intestine and is far more difficult to treat. fortunately, this was a typical presentation of the former occurrence. There was only one course of action; to perform an extraction. One of the more alarming consequences of a crowning spigot is the immense build up of gas pushing it forward. In order to alleviate the pressure and lubricate the surrounding tissues, I was first going to drill into the spigot, by means of a narrow brace and bit and through said hole introduce Castor oil via a syringe. This on occasion, coupled with anal massage can be enough to free the blockage, however, this was one of the most extreme instances I have ever treated in my 35 years of practice. I knew it required more a more radical solution. I prepared myself for surgery, washing my hands in a solution of carbolic acid and donning my protective goggles. The goggles are an essential when performing this type of operation, I know of a terribly sad incident involving a talented young surgeon, whose career was ended when he was blinded by a high velocity spigot. I made but one concession to my patient, I gave him an inhaler, a modified version of Clover's invention, which allowed him to inhale nitrous oxide throughout. Many physicians favour a combination of compounds such as nitrous oxide, sulphuric ether and chloroform. I however, harbour grave doubts as to the safety of chloroform and so prefer a combination ether and nitrous oxide during minor operations. My methods have not met with universal approval in the medical community, some still question the orthodoxy of my approach. My adoption of stool analysis, coupled with my preference for nitrous oxide has lead to me being referred to colloquially as: "Dr. S---s and giggles". As he began to inhale the gas, the patient relaxed, and chuckled pleasantly to himself. I first drilled the spigot, the deepest, most tightly impacted I have ever encountered. I calculated from the residue on the brace and bit it must be at least 5inches deep. Then inserted my longest needle through the hole I had just made and injected a syringe full of Castor oil through the opening, directly into the bowel. This proved unsuccessful. Not even the most rigorous massage, or the now rapid contractions of the rectum, {precipitated by the patient's now almost convulsive laughter} were enough to dislodge the spigot. I then had recourse to a device of my own invention. The laqueoscope, patent pending. From the Latin laquem meaning 'trap'. it consisted of a narrow steel tube divided in to two segments. Inside the uppermost chamber were two hooked prongs. both made of strong metal wire, though covered with rubber to protect the delicate tissues of the bowel. One must first insert the tube through the hole in the spigot, then twist the uppermost chamber in a clockwise direction away from the bottom one which releases the hooks. These should then grip into the mass. In the base of the bottom chamber one will find a small protruding button. Pressing this inward releases the telescopic handle which extends the exposed gripping area from 6 to 18 inches, thus affording the physician a better purchase. I inserted the device, before extending both the hooks and handle. Once in position, I began to gingerly pull the spigot towards me. It refused to budge, even a fraction of inch and so I was forced to exert greater pressure. Once it had proved itself resistant to all the force I could personally muster, I was forced to call Mr.H-'s friends back in. As in the children's fable, The Enormous Turnip, as I held onto the instrument, so they held onto me. At the count of three we all heaved in unison and flew backwards as the spigot came free. When we three healthy specimens of manhood had gathered ourselves from the floor we turned our attention to the patient. Mr.H- let out a scream through the incessant laughter when the spigot was released. This was followed by the usual stream of acrid diarrhoea. While the spigot was safely impaled on the laqueoscope the liquid ordure had squirted out and befouled a picture of Sir Joseph Lister on my far wall. Upon examination his bowel proved sound, no lasting damage had been sustained. When questioned further regarding his dietary habits it transpired that the spigot crisis was precipitated by his actions of the previous day, specifically his gluttonous consumption of an entire jar of his wife's plum conserve. The liberating effects of fruit combined with the already brewing crisis in his bowel caused the situation to come to a head. The plum conserve was the cause of the gas and diarrhoea, hence the magma flow following the extraction of the spigot. Mr.H- was extremely fortunate to be brought to such an experienced physician. I have known of many instances in which such a crisis has proved fatal. To conclude: Dietary imbalances are frequently the cause of acute dysfunction of the bowel. Such dysfunction may  be avoided by careful, infrequent consumption of such foods as are considered costive. A plant based diet is therefore to be recommended, however, excessive consumption of fruit is to be avoided as this may cause the opposite problem {too fast a digestive transit}. Although I am unaware of anyone perishing from such excesses. I will delineate further on what I consider to be the ideal diet in Chapter 2: The Perils Of Fruit: loose stools in infants, the elderly and invalids. After adopting my dietary principles, Mr.H- now enjoys excellent bowel health, having lost 3 stones and has experienced no recurrence of any of his previous symptoms.

Hot Lazarus

I am affronted. Seldom do such archaic, righteous-sounding words pass my plump, over-active lips. I am more than affronted. I am incandescent. My dead facebook profile has been digitally raped. Not only has what remains of my cyber corpse been dug up, dark arts have been employed in an attempt to resurrect it. That evil trader in virtual body parts Mark Zuckerberg has furnished a ghastly set of people based in New Zealand or thereabouts with the key to my sarcophagus. A league of wicked sorcerers called The Profile Engine. How you might well ask, did I happen upon this horrifying discovery? Being of a paranoid disposition I do at intervals Google myself {about once a week}. Ever since I deleted my facebook account on August 25 2011 I have been secretly anticipating this day. One of the reasons I left was because of a deep rooted mistrust of Zuckerberg and his ilk. Confronted with my half recovered profile I felt simultaneously violated and vindicated. I was as thorough as I could be {spent about 4hrs deleting photos and data} yet they still managed to find 26 of my erstwhile Facebook friends along with numerous links and likes. They ask you to sign in and claim the profile in order to delete it. I will not. I know better. What they have now is a carcass, sure there may be DNA but there is no life about it. What they have is my past life. To initiate further contact or furnish them with any more information would be to give them a window on my present. Which I certainly have no desire to do. What am I worried about then? That those ghoulish Frankenstein motherfuckers are going to run enough volts through my digital doppelganger to give it life. Independent life. That the angry revenant will wander abroad in search of the creator who abandoned it, seeking to destroy my future. That my profile will become sentient a la Daniel Feeld's preserved head {brilliantly characterised by Albert Finney} in Dennis Potter's Cold Lazarus. One imagines a dystopian future when the Internet will be peopled by the shades of our aborted brainchildren. Mark Zuckerberg allows people to digitally fist-fuck your dead eidolon. To ram their clawed {from excessive typing, gaming and wanking} hands straight up your arse, through your liquefying guts, into your mute, dead mouth and engage in a macabre puppet show. So I've fallen prey to the Facebook body snatchers. Read my epitaph: Fuck You!

The Emperor's New Comedy

Last night I exposed myself to an obnoxious poison. While that, for one such as I is not unusual per se, it was the origin of this particular toxin which caused me so much distress. When seeking a distraction from the ennui of existence, I tend opt for strange substances, rare herbs and exotic potions, redolent of moral decay. As I was stone cold sober, due to a dearth of the aforementioned life enhancers and consequently, bored, I decided to watch Noel Fielding's Luxury Comedy on E4. As someone who appreciated The Mighty Boosh, I was hoping for some surrealist humour in a similar vein. What I was exposed to was a pretentious, self-indulgent, vanity project by someone of dubious talent and intellectual capabilities. Mr. Fielding is obviously artistic, though no Caravaggio. In some measure amusing, though no Peter Cook. Why the fuck does some jumped up Primary school art teacher who just happens to possess the courage of his mediocrity, become the object of such approbation, in some cases adoration? One suspects that if he had a face less appealing to 15yr old girls and metrosexual, bi-curious amateur photographers who call themselves Tarquin Sequin {Thomas Smith to their estranged family}, he mightn't be so popular.   What really annoys me is his "I could shit in a newspaper and you'd still eat it up" attitude. During the "Jelly Fox" animation segment there was so much puerile, mindless repetition, I may as well have been watching a fucked up episode of Puddle Lane from 1987. He imagines that by name checking and pastiching established artists such as William Blake, Rene Magritte, Freida Kahlo et al, he can confer genius upon himself. He is sadly deluded, like the owner of a grimoire, imagining that access to a body of esoteric information will automatically transform them into a sorcerer. The Ghost Of A Flea sketch was for me the least stinky pile of shit, although that's probably because as a student of Blake's mythology I could appreciate the allusions. That said, it was pathetically childish and not a redeeming feature, rather a moment of light relief during a mostly unpleasant experience. Comparable to the man torturing you farting, while he bends over to increase the traction on the rack. Rich Fulcher was the Blake proxy William Jessop,
though the best thing he ever did was the short-lived BBC3 offering Snuff Box with
Matt Berry, he seems to degrade himself in this sort of drivel on a regular basis.
 All I can think is the money must be good. Not just for Noel and Rich or the rest of the cast, but for
E4 too. So good, in fact they have commissioned a second series. probably on the back of ratings. It terrifies me to think how many soggy-knickered school girls, gay design students and pseudo-intellectual amateur film makers there are in the world. What will they do to me if they ever catch me walking down the street? Most probably kidnap me and make a short film of me being drowned in vat of glittery fanny-batter. I digress.
  The reason I'm so pissed off is I enjoyed the Boosh. I feel like I've been conned into admiring the naked Emperor's multi-coloured, glittery jumpsuit.